


Last Night on Earth

by leici



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leici/pseuds/leici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one really knew how bad the disease was until it took down someone that couldn't be brushed under the rug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Night on Earth

**Author's Note:**

> For the sslyricwheel "Apocalypse" challenge. Again. I read instrumentality's submission the other day (OMG SO GOOD, go [read](http://sslyricwheel.livejournal.com/21991.html) [it](http://community.livejournal.com/sslyricwheel/22262.html) IMMEDIATELY if you haven't) and was suddenly re-inspired to write something more literally apocalyptic. I don't think I've ever written anything like this, so hopefully it didn't come out too badly.
> 
> I hope it's okay to post both. Mods, let me know if it's a problem and I'll take one of them down.
> 
> Once again, lyrics: [Easy/Lucky/Free](http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/Easy-Lucky-Free-lyrics-Bright-Eyes/06BF0E38E56F4BC848256F5000043CFA) by Bright Eyes.
> 
> Rockies Lexicon: Jeff is Jeff Baker, Tulo is Troy Tulowitzki, Todd is Todd Helton, Chris is Chris Iannetta, Brian is Brian Fuentes, Manny is Manuel Corpas, Omar is Omar Quintanilla, Cookie is Aaron Cook, Spilly is Ryan Spilborghs, Barmey is Clint Barmes.
> 
> Written July 2008.

No one really knew how bad the disease was until it took down someone that couldn't be brushed under the rug. Yes, they knew it existed, and supposedly they knew how it was transmitted, but everyone thought they were safe. It wasn't something that affected anyone outside a very small group of people in very specific circumstances. The news hardly reported the deaths, and the count of people who were even infected was so miniscule, no one even considered it a threat.  
  
Until Albert Pujols dropped dead at home plate.  
  
It was weeks until the autopsy was completed. In the meantime, all sorts of rumors started circulating. That Pujols was a junkie, or that he was taking steroids and HGH and any number of other performance enhancers. There was the whole heart defect and aneurysm angle, accidental overdose, natural causes. They might have covered it up, but then half his teammates came down with it - The Disease - and all the lies about it not being contiguous came to light.  
  
Anyone could get it. Anyone could die from it. And a lot of people  _did_.  
  
The season should have been suspended, half of the Cardinals lineup in the hospital, most of them dying.  
  
It wasn't. More half truths and all out deception about containment, people went on with their lives, shaking their heads at the tragedy of it.  
  
It was a Thursday afternoon game at home when Jeff threw up blood in the clubhouse. He was just sitting there in his stall, seemingly fine one moment, and the next pitching onto the floor and seizing, bleeding, dying. Dead. No warning, no symptoms, and Jeff was gone.  
  
Jeff Francis was hysterical. Terrified and young, but still older than Tulo, who grabbed him and held him as he dissolved into wracking sobs. Everyone else just stared. They didn't need the trainers to come and let them know it was over. It was obvious, in the way Jeff's eyes stared, hollow, the pool of blood beneath Jeff's nose and mouth.  
  
And all of them, any of them, could be next.  
  
The game was cancelled, mercifully, and the players were called out of the clubhouse until things could be 'taken care of.' Meaning Jeff's body had been taken away. They were let back in to change, and everyone tried to avoid looking at the blood stain, the overturned stool, Jeff's street clothes and uniforms and personal items. The only things left of him.  
  
Once the information was actually provided, it turned out to be very easy to test for the disease. A normal, simple blood test. Each of the players came to the field to have their blood taken two days later, and then in another two days, they'd have the results.  
  
Nine of them sat together in one of the executive offices. Todd, Omar, Brian. Each man healthy, not one of them having any indication that they were sick. Cookie, Spilly, Chris. They all knew why there were there. Barmey, Manny, Garrett. They had twenty four hours to say goodbye to their loved ones before they had to be admitted to the hospital. The fatality rate - the real, true number - was eighty-eight percent. Eight of them would die. If not all nine.  
  
Most of them had families - kids, wives, girlfriends. Heads together, those men talked about how they were going to break it to the people they loved.  
  
Garrett went home and watched Star Trek off his DVR like he did on every other off day. When dinnertime rolled around, he went to KFC and got an entire bucket of chicken. Like it mattered how much junk he ate. He had a twelve percent chance of surviving, and he knew he wouldn't make the cut. And he didn't want to. If only one of them had the chance to live, he wanted it to be someone like Todd or Brian, someone who had children that needed them, families to care for. Garrett lived alone, no one relying on him, not even a dog or a houseplant. If he believed in God enough to pray, he wouldn't have hesitated to ask to give his life for that of one of his teammates'.  
  
Half of the chicken eaten, Garrett decided to further indulge himself on what he'd deemed was his last night of life by eating an entire half gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Ever since he'd graduated from college, and his metabolism caught up with him, Garrett had been on a somewhat strict diet. And while he'd never really denied himself completely, he couldn't remember the last time he'd let himself go on an all-out binge. This night was his very last chance, and he was going to go for it.  
  
On his sofa, container of ice cream on his lap and a beer in his hand, he watched old episodes of X-Files and CSI, flipping channels at every commercial. The later it got, the more guilt he felt at not having called his parents, or his sister. He knew he was being a coward, not wanting to hear their voices when he told them he was going to die, not wanting to try and make them feel better about it. He was the one dying. All he wanted was to sit alone in his apartment and feel sorry for himself, gorge himself on all the junk food he could handle, and let himself be miserable, thinking of all the things he'd never done, but always wanted to. He'd always figured that there'd be time enough, always taken his health for granted. And now he didn't even have time for regrets.  
  
He must not have heard the first knock on the door. But, really, it wasn't his fault, since he'd ended up kneeling in front of his toilet for half an hour, suffering the consequences of his food choices by vomiting beer and mint foam. Leave it to Garrett to fuck up his last meal on Earth.  
  
By the time he did hear that there was someone there, his visitor was pounding on the heavy door, and shouting his name.  
  
Matty. Garrett really didn't want to answer, but by that point, he figured Matt would wake up his whole building if he didn't.  
  
The expression on Matt's face was a shade of furious Garrett had never seen before, the anger so vivid that Garrett recoiled from it, taking a half step back into his townhouse.  
  
"You weren't going to tell me."  
  
Matt's mouth was a hard line, the muscles in his jaw twitching and eyes flashing, the heat of his stare almost palpable. Garrett could hear Matt's accent, which had mostly dissolved over the years, and he knew Matt was really pissed off.  
  
"I figured you'd find out eventually."  
  
It probably wasn't the right answer to calm Matt down, but Garrett literally didn't have time for placation.  
  
"Well, you were right." Matt took two strides and crossed the threshold into Garrett's house without being invited. "But  _you_  should have fucking told me, instead of letting Todd do it. I thought we were friends."  
  
"We are friends," Garrett replied, tone snappy as he closed the door behind Matt.  
  
"Then I don't get why you didn't call me. I mean, fuck Garrett... Didn't you think I'd want to see you?"  
  
"I knew you would," Garrett crossed his arms over his chest. "I just didn't really want anyone around."  
  
Matt shook his head, incredulous. "I don't understand that."  
  
"I don't want to upset people," Garrett attempted to explain.  
  
"And you think not talking to anyone before you... You think not seeing me would change that?"  
  
"No. I don't know. I just... I can't deal with this. So I'm not."  
  
Matt's chest was rising and falling in a way that told Garrett how upset he was, and more than just angry. He reached out with both hands, his palms coming close to Garrett's shoulders before Garrett stepped back, putting his arms up. "Don't."  
  
"Garrett."  
  
Matt attempted to hug him again, but Garrett ducked back. "Don't touch me."  
  
"Why?" Matt's voice sounded hurt, and it made Garrett's chest ache.  
  
"Because. They don't know how it's spread. I'm not going to let you get it."  
  
That stopped Matt, but only for a moment. "If I was going to get it, I'd have it by now."  
  
"You don't know that. Nobody knows how this fucking disease works."  
  
"Then what's the point? I mean, how many times have I touched you in the last week? How many high fives? How many hugs? In the last few days, before-" Matt paused, and they both knew it was Jeff's name he was avoiding. "It's already too late."  
  
"I don't want to take the chance."  
  
"I do."  
  
Garrett set his jaw. "It's not all about you. What about Leslee, huh? And Ethan and Jackson-"  
  
"Stop it. You don't think I haven't considered that? What would happen to them if..." He took a deep breath, and for the first time, Garrett saw unshed tears shining in Matt's eyes.  
  
And he then he wanted to hold Matt, because he looked like he was about to come apart. But Garrett knew he couldn't, wouldn't risk the possibility that his touch would condemn Matt to the same fate he was facing. But the moment caught him off balance, and Matt was able to get a step too close. Garrett tried to get back, get away, but he tripped over his own feet and fell backwards, Matt stumbling and coming down half on top of him in the middle of his living room.  
  
"Matt, get off," Garrett panicked, voice wheezing as he tried to regain the breath he'd knocked out of himself, shoving at Matt's shoulders.  
  
But Matt had both a weight and position advantage, and he used his immense upper body strength to gather Garrett's wrists in his huge hands, pressing Garrett's arms down to his sides. "Calm down. Breathe."  
  
Garrett didn't stop fighting, twisting his wrists in Matt's iron grip, trying to get free. "Let go, dammit. Let me go!" It was getting worse, the longer Matt held him down, assailed by the acute fear of making Matt sick, but also by the unbidden reaction of his body being pinned down beneath Matt's weight. Garrett had imagined being underneath Matt like this for years, and as inappropriate as it was, he couldn't help the way his body responded.  
  
Then Matt shifted his weight, and his hip slipped past Garrett's groin, and it was all over.  
  
"Garrett, what...?"  
  
Garrett stopped fighting, letting all the tension go out of his arms. He turned his head to the side, because the last thing he wanted to see was the disappointed, disgusted look in Matt's eyes. He'd planned to take this particular part of himself to his grave, even before he knew how soon he'd be put in it.  
  
But Matt didn't move away, and Garrett could feel Matt's breath hot against the side of his neck. "You weren't going to tell me about that either."  
  
Garrett pressed his eyes tightly closed, and his hands curled into fists. He'd never wanted to do this. Especially not now. "No."  
  
"Garrett, look at me."  
  
"Please, just get off me."  
  
Matt complied. Maybe it was the tone of Garrett's voice, or the situation, but he didn't hesitate, pushing himself so he was sitting cross-legged next to Garrett's coffee table. Garrett sat up, but he kept his eyes turned down, staring at a stain on his carpet. He really didn't want to do this. He didn't want his last conversation with Matt to be this one.  
  
"Talk to me."  
  
Garrett felt anger begin to rise in him. He was mad about the circumstances that lead them here, frustrated by the sympathetic tone of Matt's voice, wound up and upset and scared. He lifted his gaze to Matt's, and he could tell his expression was harsh by the way Matt flinched. "What do you want me to say? I'm gay. I've always been that way. All these years, you've been best friends with a faggot. Is that what you want to hear?"  
  
The air rushed out of Matt's lungs, and he looked like someone had punched him in the stomach. "Why..." He shook his head, appearing to not be able to process the information at all.  
  
Garrett sighed, his whole body feeling heavy. "I couldn't tell you. I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to hate me."  
  
"I'd never hate you." The strength was back in Matt's voice. "I could never hate you."  
  
Garrett took another deep breath, and it felt like he was trying to breathe under water. "Yes you could."  
  
"Garrett, stop it. I love you. You know that. I love you no matter what you are."  
  
He could feel it working its way up the back of his throat, biting at the backs of his eyes. His next inhalation stuttered, and he had to close his eyes, two hot tears falling before he could stop himself. Almost instantly he was in Matt's arms again, his face against Matt's strong shoulder as he began to sob. For the first time since he'd gotten his test results, he let the reality wash over him. It wasn't that he was going to die, but who he was leaving behind, the people he'd never see again. His fingers curled into Matt's t-shirt and he held on tight, letting himself go. It was long moments later when he realized that Matt was crying too, his tears skipping down Garrett's back and soaking into the fabric of his shirt.  
  
He didn't have anything to lose. He knew he wouldn't last long enough for it to ever cause any trouble. So he said it, finally, letting a weight years in the making finally fall off his shoulders. "I love you," he breathed, voice still tight with tears. It wasn't the first time he'd said it, and wasn't the first time he'd meant it, but it was the first time he'd let the real sentiment be heard. "I love you so much... So much..."  
  
He wasn't sure how it happened, or why, but he didn't question the way it felt when Matt's mouth closed over his own. He could taste saline on Matt's lips, fresh tears of his own bubbling and tumbling down his cheeks. He'd wanted this so long, never even let himself imagine it would happen. But Matt was kissing him, pressing it deep, licking into the center of Garrett's mouth, curling their tongues together. He moaned softly, in relief and awe and disbelief and pleasure, and Matt's fingers brushed through his hair, sending shock waves through him. He felt light headed and dizzy and his fingertips dug into the heavy muscles of Matt's back, trying to hold on, scared of losing himself to the dark.  
  
Matt pulled back, and Garrett's world tilted. He didn't want it to end. Ever.  
  
"Garrett..." Matt's voice trembled, but it wasn't with desire or lust or love. Fear. "You're bleeding..."  
  
He forced his eyes open, and the room spun. Reaching up, he brushed his fingers across his upper lip, feeling the cloying stickiness and knowing instantly. He blinked, fought to focus his eyes on Matt's face, swallowed and tasted it at the back of his throat. He tried to breathe, but the blood was coming thicker now and he gurgled, coughing, blood spattering the inside of his palm. "Oh God... Oh God, Matty... I don't... I don't wanna die..."  
  
It was true. He'd thought he was ready, that he was going to be able to accept his fate. He'd been wrong. So completely wrong. And he was petrified.  
  
"No..." Matt's voice quavered. "I won't let you..."  
  
Another failed breath, so much blood, and he almost fell forward, barely catching himself on one shaking arm. He watched red patterns appear on the floor, soaking into the carpet, spreading out like blooming flowers. "Muh," he managed, just the first syllable of Matt's name, and then the darkness closed over him.


End file.
